Scarlet
by J-J-Sawyer-Phillips
Summary: A Captain Swan one-shot for the first time Killian sees Emma in a ballgown and their first dance. Based on an initial tumblr prompt from princess-america-singer and extended/continued per several others.


"For the last time, Emma, you look beautiful. Now, can we please go downstairs?"

"You know that I hate to agree with her, but your mother is right. I'm positively envious that I chose something in purple for this evening, dear. Red and black are definitely my colors, but you pull them off spectacularly. Just don't expect me to loan them to you indefinitely." Compliments from Regina are still exceptionally rare, despite how well they've come to know each other since Neverland. If the formerly Evil Queen likes your sense of style, then you must be doing something right.

"I'm just not used to wearing all of… this. Are you sure I don't look like an extra in a bad 80's prom movie?" To be honest, she knows that the dress itself was a work of art; she just isn't sure that SHE is doing IT any favors. She had caught sight of an old but still beautiful waistcoat in Killian's wardrobe and had done her best to describe it to the draper who had supplied the materials for her very first ballgown. The result was a very stiff red silk taffeta with rose vines embroidered all over the bodice in black silk and with tiny jet beads and honest-to-god black pearls scattered throughout. The strapless corset built into the dress worked an absolute miracle with her breasts, while the low waist hit just above her hips and flared out slightly into an a-line shape. The seamstresses (not mice, thankfully) had insisted on including a full-on bustled train, which like the rest of the skirt was yards and yards of the same type of material in a deeper red, so that the overall effect was of blood-red ruby. She even had long, opera-length black gloves that made the bodice appear alternately redder or darker depending on the light.

Snow had also insisted on some killer heels. Literally, Emma wasn't sure how long she would manage to not trip over her own shoes. They, like the bodice, were of the lighter red material, so that they almost looked like they'd been dyed in blood. Her long neck was wrapped in a pewter choker that dripped down almost to her neckline—a lovely spider's web of the dark metal set with bright carnelians and deep onyxes—with delicate ruby earrings to match. And to top it all off, her hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate mountain of curls with diamond and jet pins, although a few barrel curls were allowed to "artfully" fall down her back. Yes, the whole outfit weighed a ton, was "appropriately" regal, and with the corset laced tight there was no chance of slouching, but that was a big part of what made all of this so alien, so foreign to her. Despite her mother's assurances to the contrary, she was worried about looking like a fool, or an imposter. Her life as Emma Swan never prepared her to be elegant, ornamental, and graceful. She may have been born a princess, but she feels that at best, she's a sorry stand-in. But worse in her mind is the concern that her husband won't like how she looks.

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Naturally, the women had been sequestered away in the Queen's suite for the better part of the afternoon. In fact, Killian's quite certain that he's only seen one female servant this whole day, and she had been in the ballroom directing the table arrangements and placement of the décor. He and Charming had taken Henry out for a ride and then to the salle for sword practice, and all three of them had taken baths and gotten dressed for the evening within the span of an hour. They are now congregated around the fireplace in one of the informal, family sitting rooms, Charming discussing an atlas and giving his grandson a rudimentary lesson in politics, while the pirate turned prince is nursing a glass of whiskey. It's a weakness of his, to drink Emma's preferred alcohol when he isn't allowed to be near her for one ridiculous rule of protocol or another. David once claimed that his petulance and pouting was easier to endure when he was under its slower burning influence, but the truth is both simpler and more complex. It's absurd to feel comfort or more connected to someone based on imbibing their favorite beverage, yet he finds that it's the only thing shy of his wife's presence that can help truly calm him.

At the moment though, Killian is ready to toss the bloody glass—whiskey and all—into the fire and demand entrance to the Queen's rooms. Childish certainly, but after all that he's been through in his long life and after all that they've been through as a couple, neither he nor Emma handle the absence of the other very well. Charming and Snow are the same way, but as both have more experience with the demands and duties of royalty, his in-laws bear any time apart with better grace. Their wedding had been a brief, simple affair back in the Land Without Magic per her request, so tonight is Emma's first major event as a fully restored royal. Her mother insisting on a big, formal ball to mark their return to their kingdom, means that her daughter is likely to be upset or nervous; aside from how the stress and her mood will affect her magic (potentially disastrous), his wife's peace of mind and happiness is always Killian's number one priority. Being unable to calm her, or to reassure himself of her safety, becomes a nagging, irritating chorus in the back of his mind the longer he is away from her.

Thankfully for the glassware and everyone's sanity, the doors choose the moment when the pirate's impulses were about to be indulged to open smoothly and reveal Regina on the other side. The visiting queen quickly glides through the room straight to her son's side, a beaming and genuine smile softening the stark lines of her cheekbones. In the last year, Henry has grown into a lanky teenager, taller than both the women he calls Mom; however, thanks to various training exercises with his grandfather, father, and step-father, he's filling out his frame faster than he might have otherwise. Snow comes in, looking as graceful and serene as he's ever seen her—a look no doubt caused by the visible swell of her stomach beneath her aquamarine gown. Emma being in close proximity to her pregnant mother all day was what had Killian worried the most. She's never admitted it out loud, and he knows that she is genuinely happy to be a big sister, but a part of her is still struggling to deal with her past as an orphan. But the unworried expression on his mother-in-law's face sets at least one of his anxieties aside, for the moment.

He stands a little straighter, leaning forward slightly as if to try and be the first person to see Emma come into the room. "Come on, Mom! It can't be that bad!"

Henry's comment causes everyone in the room to chuckle a little bit, even Killian. A muffled, unintelligible comment from the woman in question makes her son's giggle even louder. But his own laughter, along with any coherent thought her husband might have had in his brain at the moment, dies the instant she glides into the room. He's had a fantasy or two, more than once, about what it would be like to see her dressed like the princess she is—a daydream which usually involves the gradual removal of all her finery. Yet despite his imagination's best efforts on the subject, he is utterly unprepared for the reality. Her dress practically flaunts how very un-princesslike she is, provocatively highlighting the lush curves of her hips and breasts. The scarlet and jet of her gown, topped by the golden hue of her curls, the creamy porcelain of her skin, the sharp jade of her eyes transform her into a living work of art, a sensual treasure that seems crafted and set with his own personal delectation in mind.

Her eyes flick to each member of her family before settling on him, a flash of sultry determination both softening and hardening her gaze at once. Emma delicately lifts the skirt of her dress between each forefinger and thumb, giving him surprisingly tantalizing flashes of her stocking clad legs; as if she knows the sight of them will cause his thoughts to go straight toward memories of how those feet, ankles, and legs feel pressed against his lower back as he thrusts into her. In fact, he rather enjoys the thought of the way those heels will make her legs look even longer and more graceful than they already are, imagining the sharp give of his skin under them when he has her on her back in the throes of her orgasm, how his wife will—perhaps knowingly or perhaps unwittingly—dig those heels into his ass to spur him on. Or into his back if he has those same legs tossed over his shoulder while he's got his head clamped between her thighs and alternately teasing and fucking her with his tongue. Or—

Emma comes to a stop in front of him, dropping the fabric and obscuring his view of her legs and feet. A pained groan—definitely not a whimper!—escapes from his throat as the skirt falls to brush the floor. With a sinfully smug grin on her face, she leans forward and slips one finger under his chin, pushing up so that his jaw is no longer hanging open. "So… I take it you approve of the dress?"

He vaguely registers the sound of everyone else laughing as they walk out of the room, discretely giving them a moment alone before all the fuss and pomp of the ball begins. Mindful of all the hard work that went into creating the vision before him, yet aching to show her just how affected he is by her, Killian merely allows himself to gently caress the curve of flesh just above the neckline of the gown with one finger. Her breath catches in her throat, thrusting her breasts up as if eagerly seeking his feather-light touch. He leans over her carefully, skimming his nose along the skin just below and behind her ear. Emma shivers, earning a soft kiss against her throat and a chuckle from her husband. "This dress receives full commendations and endorsement from me, my love. The question is: how much will enjoy me ravishing you later whilst still wearing it?"

Her eyes are positively swimming in lust, a look he rarely sees outside of the bedroom because of how guarded she still is with her emotions. She tilts her head away from his slightly, looking up at him coquettishly and with a spark of challenge. She shocks him by transforming her expression into one of innocent incredulity and positively simpering at him, fluttering eyelashes and all! "I do believe that a prince of the realm would hardly indulge in _any_ unseemly and shocking behavior… Besides, it would be a shame to ruin such a beautiful gown, especially considering all the hard work that it took to make and then get me in it. Don't you agree?"

"Well, I suppose that does answer just how attached you are to this particular bit of frippery. A wager then, my dear, on how thoroughly I can pleasure you without doing any damage?" All the wicked, delightful possibilities begin to flash through his mind, widening the grin that makes Emma remember all of the legends and tales about him that she's heard in hushed whispers and read in once-forgotten books. Throwing down the gauntlet to an infamous corsair might not be the wisest of ideas she's ever had, but neither can she resist rising to his bait. Or shivering in anticipation of the thrill of the chase she'll give him tonight. She threads her arm through his, placing her hand just so as she was instructed these last months.

"Lead on then, my dashing prince. I'd like to hear more of your ideas regarding this bet." If she had set out to render him speechless and witless due to lack of oxygen to his brain, then Emma knows she has succeeded spectacularly. Any doubts she had about what Killian thinks of how she looks when dressed in the sort of gown she should have grown up wearing have been thoroughly laid to rest. The fact that he keeps getting distracted and stares down directly at her chest makes her feel even sexier, allowing her to fill her stride with just a touch more confidence and hold her spine a little bit straighter. It doesn't take long for them to catch up with the rest of the royal party, so his whispered asides regarding the relative suitability of the different pieces of furniture or wall space that they pass for more enjoyable activities must unfortunately stop. He leans closer, probably armed with a remark designed to have her blushing, when she raises a single eyebrow and nods her head in the direction of her father and their son. His eyes flick forward, noting how close they are to everyone else as well as the stately doors leading to the ballroom, and he wisely decides that sharing his thought can wait. Duty calls and all that.

The majordomo raps his staff of office loudly against the elaborately carved oak panels, an action that will no doubt cause a flurry of mingling courtiers, dignitaries, and other royals to line up on either side of the golden velvet carpet that leads in a straight line to the dais. As heir to the throne, Emma and her prince consort—a title that she and Killian have both had quite a few private laughs about—should follow her parents, according to precedent. She had argued with the king and queen against it, broadly hinting that whichever gender her next sibling happened to be, she or he would make a far better heir since they could be raised from birth to handle all the responsibilities that went along with a inheriting a crown. In the end, the argument that Regina was both family and outranked her as a queen in her own right had persuaded David and Snow to relax protocol on this occasion. However, Killian had seen in the stubborn set of his mother-in-law's chin—and, dear gods, but wasn't THAT acutely familiar!—that their disagreement on the subject was far from finished.

Ironically, he understood the reasoning and opinions on both side of the question, sympathizing with both, but choosing to openly side with his wife. Aside from the fact that Emma (falsely, in his opinion) does not believe herself fit to rule, there's always going to be his own reputation that will count against her. While their family and close friends may understand and accept that they are True Loves, and that he is a changed and better man as a result, there are no doubt nobles and other would-be power players who will use his former life of piracy against the two of them. Even an official proclamation, passed by the council and to which he had affixed his own signature, rejecting any personal claim to kingship should Emma become Queen, had failed to halt the malicious gossip and shadowy murmurs of discontent. To her parents' credit, they have a deep, unshakeable faith in their daughter who, despite not being raised as a princess, has yet managed to become a wise, discerning leader. As part of their efforts to make her feel useful and included, Snow and David have retained her Storybrooke title of sheriff, making her responsible for adjudicating all appeals to the crown and requests for aid in reclaiming and rebuilding old townships and homesteads. Frankly, it's a mostly thankless job, but she manages people well, only occasionally leaning on Killian to fill in her knowledge gaps on the Enchanted Forest way of life.

Dressed as she is now though, she completely looks the part and wears it well, in his less than humble and entirely biased opinion. Moreover, he knows enough of the type of people they will be facing tonight to still remain utterly confident in his Emma's ability to charm and disarm anyone who would dare cross her. The doors swing open to a simple fanfare, revealing as expected a clear avenue to the thrones and row upon row of elaborate costumes in a variety of colors, although most of them are trending toward the pale, pastel end of things. Their names and titles are announced as they begin the sedate walk to the dais, amid the muted whispers of the throng. People rise as they pass, comments upon the outfits of the royal party growing louder by the second. While Snow looks lovely and the bold color emphasizes her pale skin and dark hair, Killian can sense that it is his wife's transformation into an even more stunning beauty that has tongues wagging and trend-setters furiously cataloguing every detail. He casts his eyes discretely toward her, careful to keep his fixation with her breasts in check, and reassures him that she is outwardly calm at least; with her wrist resting against his, he can feel the rapid tempo of her pulse indicating that she is much more nervous about their entrance than her countenance conceals.

Carefully, ready to step in should she require a rescue, he leads her up the steps and to her throne, placed to the right of those of her parents. Before letting go of her hand, he makes sure that she is seated comfortably and places a reverent kiss on her gloved left hand. He then takes his place, standing behind her and to the right, hand resting on the hilt of his sword—a subtle, yet firm declaration that he does not consider himself her equal in power and that his title is one of ceremony and courtesy. The next part promises to be fairly dull, with both of her parents giving speeches of gratitude and accepting a renewed pledge of fealty from their nobles. Thankfully, years of captaining a ship have served him well, so that while the prospect of standing for several hours on end is not exactly appealing, he is certain that he can weather it without embarrassing himself or their family. David keeps his address mercifully brief, rightfully acknowledging his wife as the better speaker of the two of them and provoking a couple of rounds of laughter. He thanks the people for their goodwill and good cheer in spite of the many hardships brought about in recent years; many are tactful enough not to glare openly at Regina.

The applause is polite and genuine, but also fairly brief. Snow remains seated, one hand resting on her stomach and the other holding her husband's right hand. "My good people, I cannot tell you how incredibly blessed and grateful I feel that we have come to see this day—a day that we all have worked so hard to achieve. Sometimes we have had to fight, and sometimes we have simply had to be willing to lend a helping hand to someone else in need. And whatever the task—whether farming or home building, felling trees or gathering the harvests—we have, each and every one of us, contributed to this new era of peace and prosperity. Yet there is one whose deeds and actions have assuredly gone unnoticed by almost everyone, but that is because they have served humbly and thanklessly up to this point. But no more."

A ripple of surprise and curiosity flows out through the crowd, whispered conversations ebbing and flowing as the Queen clearly anticipated. "This person has chosen to act as a servant, always lending a firm hand to tear down and rebuild those things which were lost and a gentle hand when comfort and healing were what was most needed. They have used every single gift they possess in order to provide justice and shelter to the afflicted, to give order and light where there once was chaos; and they have done all of this, without fail, because they truly believe in bringing happiness to others before looking to their own heart and peace of mind. In point of fact, I know that this person would rather not have their anonymity broken because they are simply just that humble, just that self-sacrificing. However, I intend to ask this person to come forth from the shadows and to have their deeds and their love for my people proclaimed throughout the land, and further, I will be lodging a request with the Council of Lords that this individual henceforth be recognized without contest as heir to the Crown of the lands handed down to me by my father, King Leopold."

This time the conversations become much merrier and much louder, as the prospect of a proclaimed heir will bring nearly everyone in the kingdom a renewed sense of the peace they have all earned. Killian can practically see the contentment, the happiness as a visible glow of sunlight on many faces; he also notices that toward the back, in the corners and shadows of the room, there are still hints of unease. Snow White has only mentioned naming an heir to her own lands, leaving David's portion of the kingdom still in doubt as to their fate. Being friends with the King has its advantages, and he and his father-in-law have talked late into the night over just this matter, so he knows that the question of an heir needs to be settled sooner rather than later. The Queen leans forward, seeking the eyes of her step-mother. "Regina, if you would please?"

A smile graces the other woman's lips. She holds out both of her hands, palms up before a gentle glow infuses them. Rather than smoke and flames, a gentle rain of blue and green sparkles drifts down, slowly but surely forming a delicate and elegant coronet. Much like the tiara that Eva once handed down to her daughter, the crown is made of carefully crafted silver with diamonds set into the band, but it is clear that this one has been made with another head in mind altogether. Once the spell is complete, Regina lets out a sigh and carefully hands it to Snow with a smile and a curtsy. "In the other land we lived in, the Land Without Magic, there was a wise poet who once said, 'heavy is the head that wears a crown.' As your Queen, I understand that I must live for my people and not for myself alone. I understand the sacrifices and the hardships that come with putting the needs and safety of others above my own. And if you are all honest with yourselves, you know that my daughter believes and feels and acts with the same amount of humility and ability to serve that I do. Princess Emma, please?"

Killian steps forward to help his wife rise, hand waiting patiently for hers. Snow looks over at her, eyes swimming with unshed tears and a silent plea. Part of him wishes that it weren't high treason to thrash the Queen in public, knowing as she surely does that her daughter wants no part of the crown; the other part is thoroughly impressed by the sheer audacity of his mother-in-law's plan. He takes a risk and walks so that he can see Emma's face while still holding his hand out to assist her. He notices the panic, the fear, and crippling uncertainty that others would have missed. He places his right hand over his heart, drawing her focus back to him, and kneels before her. _I can't do this; I don't want this_.

His expression gentles and he smiles at her, carefully lifting one brow. Despite the completely different setting and context, she can practically hear his words all over again. _I've yet to see you fail._ Finally, she takes a deep, calming breath and places her hand trustingly in his; her expression pins him in place, her own eyebrow arched as if to say that she expects him to help see this through, and perhaps that he'll have to make it up to her tonight for not allowing her to make a mad dash for the exit. He loves that they can communicate so effectively with the slightest change in expression—it's one of the many reasons that they work so well together and make such a formidable team. However, in this instance, he uses it to tease her as well as to convey his support of whatever decision she makes. He drops his gaze once more to her legs and feet as she stands and maneuvers in front of her mother, licking his lips exaggeratedly. A silent reminder and promise of the game they plan on playing later this evening.

Reading Snow's somewhat stony expression isn't that difficult either: behave yourselves, or there will be consequences. After bowing to his wife and then to her mother, he descends a few steps, still staying to Emma's right in a fixed, defensive stance. He'd prefer having his back to the thrones, not feeling open and exposed with all of these people glaring holes into the back of his head, but turning his back on Snow and David would be viewed as the ultimate insult. The Queen holds up the coronet and makes a show of inspecting it. "Princess Emma, you and I have spoken on more than one occasion about the qualities necessary to being a wise and just ruler. I more than anyone here am aware of the sacrifices you have made, the struggles you have gone through, and the burdens you have carried on behalf of this entire realm; and what is more, you did them with no knowledge of who you were and where you were from. When you could have turned your back on a birthright that you never asked for, you instead took up the mantle of leadership and responsibility. You saved us all, not because we deserved it, but because you believed that it was the right thing to do. You have endured pain and hardships beyond imagining, and that is why I know that you are strong enough to carry the weight of this crown. I believe in you, my beloved daughter. Will you accept your rightful place as my heir, as future Queen of this land?"

Emma's whole body trembles, as if her entire being is violently opposed to taking hold of her destiny. The King looks directly at Killian, silently asking him what her decision will be; the former pirate honestly shrugs, just as ignorant as the next person. Finally, as if to stretch the silence to its breaking point, his wife kneels in front of her mother. "I think everyone here knows I'm about as good at speeches as my father is. I never asked to be a princess, and I am terrified of letting everyone down; but if this is what you want, and the Council of Lords approves my election, then I will do as you ask."

Snow practically throws the tiara at her husband before reaching out to embrace her daughter in a fiercely proud, although limited, hug. David carefully joins the embrace, cradling Emma's head despite the elaborate coiffure. The applause that had been subdued and polite before has evolved beyond, into cheers and unmistakable cries of joy. Once the family breaks apart, the King kisses his daughter on her cheek and gently sets the coronet on her head before turning her to face the crowd. As one, the three royals face the assembly of their subjects, standing united and unshakeable. Killian winks at his beloved before falling to his knee and bowing his head; behind him, he can hear the answering rustle of hundreds of gowns and hundreds of tunics and breeches as the people follow his lead.

The next two hours are positively nightmarish and seemingly endless, as one by one, each of the lords and ladies of the kingdom come forward and declare their fealty. The speeches all adhere to a common script which leaves very little room for creative spontaneity. Killian manages to enliven things for Emma every so often with a comment designed to make her laugh; it becomes quite the struggle to not giggle inappropriately, but if anyone can hide the fact that she's suddenly envisioning the serious elderly duke in a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts with flip flops, it's her. She breathes a sigh of relief when the last earl finishes his oath, albeit a restricted one thanks to the corset that has become more and more uncomfortable as the audiences have worn on. She's desperate to stand and stretch her back, until she realizes that doing so means that she and Killian, her parents, and Regina and Henry have to formally open the ball with a waltz. Panic has her trying to pull in more air with each and every breath, something entirely impossible with her laces drawn as tight as they are. She feels a gentle touch at the back of her neck, a delicate, soothing caress of her husband's hand along her nape. Emma calms almost immediately, reassured of his presence and again, almost hearing his unspoken words of love and support. His fingers brushing softly against her skin remind her of the day almost a month ago now, when he'd been elected by Snow and David to "inform" her about the dancing requirement of the ball.

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"_Mom? Dad?" After waking her up, her maid had started picking up all of the discarded bits of clothing that had gotten carelessly tossed aside last night. The middle-aged woman huffed and muttered under her breath, probably something about plundering pirates and princesses who lacked polish. She'd overheard more than one conversation between the servants about how "it just wasn't done" for ladies to behave in such a brazen manner, even if they were married. Emma often found herself smiling over the fact that the etiquette and decorum of the Enchanted Forest reminded her of romance novels or something out of Jane Austen, made even funnier by the fact that Killian certainly __belonged__ on the cover of one of those bits of drug store erotica. Fabio, eat your heart out! _

_But the maid had then primly informed her that, "Their royal highnesses request that you meet them in the music room after you have breakfasted," before curtseying and walking out carrying the laundry. Emma shook her head and smiled to herself again; that particular maid had been absolutely horrified when told that her "help" in getting dressed every morning was neither needed nor wanted. Princess or not, she drew a line at being treated like a life-sized Barbie doll. She'd walked over to the wardrobe, picked out the simplest outfit she could find—a pale green linen blouse, tan vest, leather pants, and split skirt to match the vest—added her favorite pair of boots, and was down at the breakfast parlor in less than ten minutes. It also struck her as incredibly ridiculous that the palace had so many rooms and almost as many uses for each one; she had joked with her husband that without his unfailing sense of direction, the two of them would have gotten lost a long time ago. He'd drawn a map for her the next day and had mockingly presented her with it while she was trying to seduce him. Unsurprisingly, she was not amused, and they ended up fighting; the make-up sex afterward had been phenomenal though._

_Since it was already close to noon time, Emma grabbed some sort of fruit, and then quickly found her way to the music room, which was completely empty except for a piano; hence, calling out to her parents. She felt a small current of magic just before he struck, so she was able to avoid being grabbed from behind by her husband and had her blade out and at his throat by the time he'd fully materialized. He swallowed and held his hands up in surrender, cursing under his breath at the same time. "What gave me away this time, love?"_

"_Our magic is connected, so I seriously doubt you'll ever be able to sneak up on me. But I could practically hear the smug innuendo you were probably practicing all morning. Speaking of." She pulled the dagger away from his throat and slung her left arm around his neck, dragging him down to her for a lazy, thorough kiss. Their good morning kiss had become something of a ritual for them, often sparking an indolent, extended stay in bed. Waking up entangled in the warm comfort of the other's arms may be a daily event, but it's a simple pleasure that they promised themselves never to take for granted. So, finding herself in bed alone that morning had been unexpectedly upsetting. She took her time, sucking and nibbling on his pouty upper lip while her fingers played through his hair. She giggled when Killian wrapped his arms just below her ass and lifted her up, spinning in a circle with her. She pulled back with a gasp, which freed him to run his stubbled cheek along the sensitive skin of her neck. "I missed my alarm clock this morning."_

"_Duty called, my dear. Besides, you looked positively angelic and peaceful. I couldn't find it in my black and rotten heart to wake you." He slowly released her, reveling in the feel of her body sliding against his. He had actually spent quite a long time that morning brushing his fingers along her skin, quietly enjoying the simple contentment of watching his beloved sleep. His grin would widen and his heart beat faster whenever she would lean into the caress or mumble his name. He'd never told her that she occasionally spoke while dreaming, mostly because it was often nonsense but also because it was something unspeakably precious to him to hear her whisper his name like a prayer, even while completely unaware that she did so. It was one of those revelations that required a right time and place, a special moment. He cupped her face in his hands before placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, the tip of her nose, and then to her lips. "And I am to apologize to you on behalf of your parents for the ruse they concocted to get you here."_

"_Why would they-? Oh, no! No! Not happening Killian! This is so not-"_

"_Oh, I am afraid it most definitely is happening, darling. Regina has placed a spell on this room, so don't even try leaving. The ball is only a month away, and you have used every excuse in the books and then some. It's time you learned how to dance." Panic started tightening her chest when she realized she couldn't will herself out of the room with her magic. He knew she hated even the thought of dancing!_

_Killian grabbed one of her hands and used his other to tilt her chin so that she faced him. "Emma, I know you did not ask to be a princess, but you are. You must face the hard reality that from now on, there will be balls and fetes and teas and all sorts of occasions where you will have to dress a little fancier than you prefer and at which you will be expected to dance. If it makes you feel better, you can think of it as a well-choreographed fight…without blades or fists."_

_She glared at his attempt at humor, but she was also fighting back a smile. Unfortunately for her, he knew that his quip had been amusing. He gave her another gentle peck on the lips. "There's a good girl. Now, place your right hand on my shoulder and give me your left. We'll start with the basic steps of the waltz and go from there. You'll want to pay attention to the hand at your waist-it's how I'll lead you…"_

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But having to dance in front of a room full of people is suddenly an all too imminent reality that has her trembling nervously; Killian's left hand once again waits in front of her to assist her in rising from her throne (which is quite possibly the strangest of all the now "normal" things in her life), his right held formally behind his back. She catches his eye, sending a silent plea to get her out of there—one she knows he won't listen to, because as much as _she_ might be dreading it, _he's_ thrilled at the chance to show her and everyone else exactly how graceful and beautiful she looks while dancing. Even through the satin of her gloves, she can feel warmth radiating through his hand and shivers uncontrollably; there's always a frisson of excitement, an electric current that dances just underneath the skin, no matter how chaste and innocent the touch between them. Despite six months of marriage, not to mention the seemingly interminable time they spent flirting with each other both before and after Neverland, the exhilaration of being together hasn't decreased in the slightest. Every caress is new, every kiss sparks fire in their veins, and every smile and laugh is indescribably precious.

They both hold their breath for a moment, a sort of recognition of that burning ember and the necessary pause to become accustomed to it, so that they can remember that they are in public and can't allow the blaze to grow. Then comes the sigh, not of relief, but of resignation—their heads have managed to win out over their hearts, and they can continue out onto the dance floor without worrying that their hormones will have them acting like love-struck teenagers. Emma still feels very self-conscious, but at least she and Killian aren't the only couple starting the ball with this waltz. She takes in another shaky breath as her husband performs the appropriate bow before she drops into a careful curtsy. The musicians get their pitch from the maestro, not a one of them daring to test the sounds of their instruments now that the royals have taken to the floor. "Pretend we're in the music room, love. Just you and me, and no one is watching."

He speaks so softly that she isn't sure at first whether he actually spoke aloud, or if he's managed to finally communicate with her mind to mind. In the instant before the opening strains begin, Killian pulls her into his arms and robs her of wits and breath once more. And then in the very next second, they are gliding fluidly across the polished marble. Her eyes are locked on his, the lines around them and the furrow of her brow telegraphing her nervousness and fear to him. He smiles at her, not a smirk, but the genuine one that she first glimpsed just before they were parted at the Storybrooke town line; she doesn't mistake it for one of amusement at her tension and anxiety, but rather knows that it is born from his own twisted sense of humor. More than once, he has told her that she cannot see herself clearly—that she refuses to accept that she _is_ beautiful, graceful, and elegant. Emma feels the slight buzz in her mind that she associates with Killian's magic, and suddenly the ball and all its trappings and the people fade away, until just the two of them are dancing in a room lined with mirrors. "Take a good, long look, my dear. Not only are you radiant and positively ravishing, but you look and act and hold yourself as the princess that you are. Stop doubting yourself, and learn to believe. We all have faith in you, Emma love."

"Well, when you put it like that." He laughs whole-heartedly, thoroughly cursing the fact that the dance is drawing to a close and that they must keep up appearances for several more hours. With a thought, he dispels the illusion of the hall of mirrors, returning them once more to reality as the final notes die away. He stops them perfectly in time and steps away from his lovely wife to perform the ending bow. They are now surrounded by dozens of couples, all of whom turn toward the quartet on the dais in the corner and applaud the musicians' efforts. He kisses Emma's gloved hand, silently promising her that their flirtation and dalliance are far from over this evening, despite the fact that they must behave and mingle with the King and Queen's guests. Thankfully, the lovely Ruby and her good doctor managed to edge their way close to Killian and his wife, both of them engaging him and Emma for the next round of dancing.

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Several interminable hours later, her feet feel so horribly pinched and abused that she quickly and politely detaches herself from the older gentleman who partnered her for this last dance. She gratefully takes the champagne glass one of the servants offers to her as she walks by, nodding to everyone who smiles at her while she nevertheless charges straight toward a small chaise lounge in a semi-private alcove she spotted earlier. She silently and not-so-silently curses the many layers of the long skirt that she has to pick up and place just so before she can actually sit down. Blissfully for her spine, someone had the forethought to place a pillow at the arm—the piece of furniture is long, like a sofa, but if there's only one vertical surface, does that make it the back, like it's a chair? Well, arm, back, whatever, Emma's just happy to have something to help her slouch, because _her_ back is starting to complain as loudly as her toes. She takes a long drink of the champagne, enjoying the tartness and the giddiness that she's always associated with this particular wine. She eases the shoes off of her feet, groaning in relief when her feet are finally free. "I do hope that isn't the only sound of pleasure you're capable of this evening, love."

The curtains, that had been decoratively sashed and tied back so that whoever needed a rest could still watch the happenings of the ball, fall shut as if harshly snapped together by an irritated inhabitant of the room. Emma smirks and takes another sip, curious as to whether he'll materialize in front of her, or whether he's been hiding back here all along, waiting for her to come to him. She could See him and ruin his fun, she supposes, but she has to admit that she isn't adverse to surprises where her husband is concerned. "That was hardly the sound of pure bliss! It was more along the lines of joy that I managed to survive wearing those shoes. Not that your ego needs the boost, but I've come to expect a lot more where you are concerned, Captain."

A dark chuckle vibrates in the air near her neck, and she feels his warm breath stir her curls before his nose brushes against her ear. But instead of kissing that favorite spot of hers, just behind her earlobe—that spot that has her nipples hardening just by _thinking_ about him even touching her there—he caresses a line from the edge of her necklace along her shoulder. "Given what an absolute miser you are when it comes to complimenting me, darling, I'll take that as highest praise. If you don't mind, that is."

"Well, that all depends… Are you here to tease me, or do you think we can make an escape to our bedroom now?" She really has no idea how he moves so fast, especially without magic, but before she knows it he has her bent back over the arm of the chaise, his mouth pressed against her breast and his too clever fingers playing over her clit and pussy. Her mind blanks, completely empty of everything except for the man who renders her speechless each and every time he touches her like this. She whimpers when he slips two fingers inside her, slowly circling and searching for just that right spot to have her seeing stars.

"I've had to watch too many men staring at you with undisguised lust and greed in their eyes, my love. As much as I appreciate the depths of depravity your mother went to in crafting and getting you into this gown, I find myself thoroughly enraged at the thought of sharing you with any other—even if it's only in their fantasies. Finally, I am most eager to lavish you with my undivided attention, so I can wring every last sigh, every last scream, every last drop of pleasure our minds can withstand. And then I want to collapse, preferably with you still naked in my arms, and hold you captive for the next few days or so. In bed, naturally." Even while focused on the steady rhythm of his fingers pumping in and out of her and on marking her breasts with careful nips of his teeth, he manages to seduce her with the vibrant images his words create in her mind. She laughs, a low and husky sound that she knows can make him harder, and yet can also make him putty in her hands. She drags her fingers through his hair, yanking so that it's just this side of painful and slanting her lips over his. It's the same wild, hot passion that sparked their first kiss in Neverland, and at the same time inexplicably different. Her last ounce of control is focused on transporting them both to their bedroom, a muffled 'uumph' and the weight of his body pinning her to the mattress that is suddenly under her back the only indication of their change of scenery. Killian pulls back, eyes darting around the room before snapping back to her. "Progress on your sense of navigation: we made it to _our_ bedroom this time."

Emma smacks his chest playfully, trying but failing to flip them over. "Damn skirts!" He laughs at her attempt, catching her hand with the one that isn't currently pleasuring her underneath the aforementioned, recently-cursed skirt. He places kisses on her palm and wrist, eyes locked on her face and watching the play of emotions and sensations as he gets her closer and closer to the edge. When she starts biting her lip, he knows she's close—his still-guarded, beloved Emma. He revels, positively glories and gloats in the fact that only he can do this to her, only he gets to see this beautiful savior-goddess become a wanton siren in his arms. He slips his hand to her throat, tilting her head just so for another mad kiss, his every thought and movement honed and refined to bringing her greater pleasure. Her fingers curl, twisting in the sheets as if she's desperate to hold back, to cling tightly to earth; but he won't have any of that, and with a careful flick of his thumb, he sends her soaring. Her sheath clenches tightly around his fingers, milking them and sending a jolt of pure need and lust through his whole body, surprising even him with its intensity. They've wondered aloud whether this frenzy for each other will ever mellow or fade, and he for one hopes that it never does. He can't imagine a day where the sight of Emma Swan won't stir his every impulse and light his skin on fire, nor does he want to.

Even without magic, her skin positively glows while she comes down from her orgasm. Killian loves watching her face change from pure bliss to full awareness, basking in his own sense of pride for having given her that overwhelming moment of freedom. This time however, his hubris prevents him from noticing how much his lovely wife has recovered until she literally disappears from underneath him, sending him tumbling facedown into the mattress. "Clever minx!"

He hears another of her sinful, throaty chuckles behind him, and he quickly whirls around to face her. Emma's curls are delightfully mused, but still clinging to her head where the pins haven't shifted; that is until she starts removing the jeweled baubles from her hair and letting it cascade down her back. She laughs again as she notices him lick his lips, eyes transfixed on her graceful, teasing movements. "You know… It isn't my mother you should be thanking for this dress. Because I've noticed that you seem to have a very particular…attachment to black and red. Didn't you recognize the details?"

Killian looks at her curiously, now focusing in on the garment as opposed to the luscious body it's encasing at the moment. "My old—love, did you—how did you—did you have this made with my tastes in mind?"

Her grin widens into a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile at his flustered inability to speak. "I found an old vest—we aren't having this argument again, it's a vest! I found it in your side of the wardrobe, and it gave me an idea… Or possibly two."

She reaches around to the bow secured at the bottom of her corset, and after untying it, she unwraps the ribbon from around her waist. Until the panels of the skirt itself start to fall away, revealing her long legs encased in sheer-black stockings with bright red ruffles on the top. She carefully steps away from the pooled fabric, enjoying her own spot of pride at the shocked and awed expression on her husband's face. She considers the fact that he audibly gulps and remains speechless for more than five seconds a well-earned victory, but not prepared to rest on her laurels, she saunters closer to him. "I'm glad you appreciate the many benefits of this particular dress because yes, I had it made to look good just for you, Captain. In fact, I'm glad you chased me down in the ballroom, because I have been planning on this for a long time."

He can barely breathe—she's so close to him, so achingly beautiful, and she's his! "Gods, Emma! I don't think I'll ever get used to the idea that you love me. Every time I think I've wrapped my head round it, you do something like this, and I can't understand what I could possibly do to deserve you!"

She manages to blush at his compliment, despite all that has passed between. She places a hand against his cheek, laughing happily when he leans into the touch and rubs his stubble against her palm. "See, this is why—with the dress and the playing coy and seductive… What you deserve or not is completely beside the point, Killian. You always know the right thing to say, but more importantly the right thing that I need you to do. You are ridiculously good with words, but then you do something like teach me how to dance or make me laugh so I don't feel self-conscious during my first ball or you touch me and look at me like I'm the most precious treasure in all the world. And I feel like I don't do enough to show you how much that means to me. No talking yet; I'm not finished! You accused me of not seeing myself clearly, but you're guilty of the same thing, my love. So, we are going to pretend, starting right now, that everything went according to my plan for this evening. You are going to strip, get on that bed, and let me tie your hands to it. And then… you'll just have to wait and see where I go from there, because I have every intention of surprising you for a change. Understood?"

She giggles at the way his eyes light up toward the end of her little speech and how he pouts just a bit for show. However, it doesn't take him long to begin complying with her demands, hands quickly going to the buttons of his waistcoat and the folds of his simple cravat. Emma stalks back toward her vanity, her mind conjuring random memories of watching him undress to accompany the sounds of linen, silk, and leather sliding against his body. She turns and sits on the settle to watch him strip the last of his clothes off, exaggeratedly crossing her legs in case he's forgotten that she hadn't been wearing any panties under her ballgown and drawing her long black gloves down her arms and off her hands. He keeps his gaze locked on her, conscious that every single movement of his is sating her hunger for him; it's as if she can devour him with her eyes, and he bloody loves it when she's commanding like this. He doubts she's conscious of it, but her magic shifts the air, so that phantom fingers trace their way across his chest and down his body. When he's finally naked, he crawls across their bed before sprawling comfortably in the middle, hands tucked underneath his head.

With a snap of her fingers, coils of rope unwind themselves from the posts of their bed. They slither across the smooth linens, seeking out his wrists, which they fasten themselves around. Gently, the bindings pull his arm straight out; she's left his legs free, so for now, her only concern is that he not be able to touch her, or to take control of anything without him asking her permission. Another snap has candles lit all around the room so that the lighting is good, but soft. Emma stands gracefully before practically gliding across the room to where he lays spread out before her on their bed. She runs her hands up his leg and to his thigh, carefully avoiding his groin and up his stomach and chest. His muscles contract in the wake of her touch, which is not nearly enough. She stares down into his eyes as if searching for something, the heat of her body radiating down to him, tantalizingly close. "I expect you to be very, very vocal about what I plan on doing first."

She drops a quick kiss to his lips, so brief that he has no chance to hold on to her, no chance to deepen it. And then he can't even think about anything but the fact that her mouth is inches away from his straining cock. A strangled, startled sound rips out of his throat when she blows a moist breath along his length before taking the tip between her lips. She's absolutely careful and delicate, licking that first bead of pre-cum from him tentatively; save for the fact that she's done this to him before, her nearly insubstantial, shy strokes of her tongue would make him think her a novice! She's doing her damndest to make him beg and whimper, and gods help him, but he isn't ashamed that he'll give her exactly what she wants in practically no time at all. Emma brushes her lips around the head before releasing him and placing a kiss over his navel. She crawls away from his body and sits off to the side, eyes still burning bright with undisguised lust and mischief. "Teasing, saucy wench!"

He loves the sound of her laughter despite the fact that it sends another bolt of desire through his whole body; knowing that she wants to see and hear what it is she does to him, he lets go of his control and allows that feeling to shudder through him and lift his hips off the bed. She licks her lips, an unconscious anticipatory gesture, and reaches for a bottle on the bedside table. "Now this, you may or may not be familiar with. But I made sure to bring some of this along from the Land Without Magic, just in case, because there are some perks of science that may or not be available here."

She upends the bottle and pours the oil onto her open palm, the scent of spices teasing his nose. She rubs her hands together before touching him. Her hands are slick and warm, running across the muscles of his thighs and stomach. He groans as she deepens her touch to firm, massaging strokes; every inch of skin she touches remains heated and flushed, the smell of cinnamon and cloves heavy in the air. He can't deny that it feels heavenly, but his need for her remains unsated. "Please!"

Her throaty chuckle and grin are positively wicked. He had no idea that he could become so hard, could be so impatient and left yearning for the lightest brush of a feather. But then when she finally ceases tormenting him and firmly grips his cock, smoothly stroking down the shaft, he's unprepared for the sensation. His eyes roll back in his head, and his vision starts to blacken around the edge; like a fumbling schoolboy, he's ready to explode in her hand after one touch. "Gods, but you are a devilishly clever woman, Emma! I'd applaud you if you weren't using those very wits against me!"

He can see the want, the hunger still burning through her body as she continues to slowly play with him, and play is the only word he can think of to describe what she's doing to him. Her strokes on his shaft all begin at the head, gripping him tightly and smoothly going all the way down before repeating the process all over again with her other hand. It feels as if he's languidly making love to her, pulling himself all the way out and then full seating himself inside her, over and over and over again. He's so caught up in what she's doing to him that he almost misses the growl that signals the end of her patience. Emma guides his cock to her mouth and takes him in until he nudges the back of her throat. Her hands go to his hips, using him for balance and allowing only part of his back to bow up away from the mattress. She swallows hard around him before releasing him and then going again. He's suddenly unsure whether or not a man can truly die in the midst of being pleasured by his wife. The curls that she had unpinned earlier bob up and down, brushing against his skin whenever she hits her limit. And just when he's teetering on the edge, when white stars starts bursting across his sight and his breath comes in ragged gasps, she sucks him down a final time and then slowly releases him.

With one very notable exception, his entire body goes limp with satisfaction. "Bloody hell, woman! Please tell me you learnt that in a book because I might just have to break out the old hook if you've done that to any other man save me."

Emma can't help but laugh again, which is one of the things she loves most about her reformed pirate—in bed, out of bed, he can always coax a smile or laughter from her. "A woman has to maintain her secrets, Captain. But now, I want to play another game."

She crawls up the bed to kiss him, the spiced oil still present on her tongue adding a different flavor to the hot, sloppy competition of lips. She grabs a couple of pillows and places a final peck on his nose before scampering back to her place near the foot of the bed. She sets the pillows so that she can lean back just a bit, then she reclines against them. "You still have to be a good boy and stay right where you are, but you are going to tell me what you want to see. And I'll do what you say. Understood?"

Killian swallows audibly, completely blown away by her again. But this particular game of hers is now a double-edged sword—one that will work in his favor this time. Even bound to his own bed, it doesn't take him long to recover his usual level of swaggering self-assurance. "As much as I know you're positively dying to get out of that corset, I love the way it looks against your skin. Take your left hand and gently trail your fingertips back and forth along your collarbones. Don't be shy about enjoying it. Your skin is softer, smoother than mine and your hands not as calloused. And with that oil still clinging to your fingers, you're probably starting to feel a soft warmth spreading along your chest. Am I right? Now, take your time with this, but I want you to free your breasts from the corset, one at a time, starting with your right. Have I mentioned just how pert and perfect I have imagined they will look, perched above your bodice? Positively delectable, darling—all creamy skin with the puckered buds of your nipples, like a raspberry atop a delicious confection. That's it, love. Enjoying the difference?

"Gods, but you have no idea how much I wish I were free to be touching you instead! Don't give me that sour look, my dear—I'm playing by your rules. Now take your left breast in hand and cup it, as if weighing it in your hand. Yes, that's it! Framing your bud just so—exquisite, darling. I want to see everything now—spread your legs, bent at the knee and feet planted just outside your hips. Don't even need to ask if you are enjoying yourself. I imagine that you've gotten yourself quite worked up tending to my every whim. I'd say you've earned yourself a bit of relief for your superlative efforts this evening. Use your right hand, love, and give your clit a few delicate taps. Moisten your fingertips with your juices, and then keep a gentle up and down on it; imagine it's my tongue instead, flicking and laving and driving you mad with lust. Now wet your thumb and keep it up. I want to see you finger fuck your cunt—just the middle finger, Emma! Don't want you coming before I'm good and ready for you to. No! Did I say for you to start pinching your nipple? Bad form, my love! Oh, hello."

Apparently limiting what she could do while under his "direction" proved the final straw for his lovely wife's patience. Killian actually smirks and giggles while she kisses him furiously and rubs herself against him like a cat. He internally cries victory when the ropes go slack and he is free to touch her again. He makes quick work of the laces and helps Emma discard the now offensive, restraining garment. It is her turn to giggle and smile when he flips them so that she is on her knees in front of him, his chest flush with her back. He nudges her legs a little further apart before plunging two fingers into her pussy. She moans as he pumps them in and out, twisting his wrist at the end of each thrust. "Seeing you like this, I'm tempted to tease you a little longer, make with whimper and writhe for me as I lick and suck. But I think we've had enough foreplay for now, darling."

Emma lets out a string of curses when he thrusts home, filling her completely and nudging the end of her. He sets a relentless pace, pistoning his hips so that her ass slaps his abdomen each and every time. He has her seeing sparks, fireworks, fucking supernovas behind her closed eyelids, and with every collision, a whimper or grunt or moan pours out of her throat. In no time at all, her walls are clenching hard around his cock as she comes for him. He fucks her through it, keeping careful control so that he doesn't follow her just yet. He did, after all, promise to wring every possible drop of pleasure from her body; and he's never yet failed his Swan. She bonelessly collapses, awkwardly slithering closer to the pillows with an enviable expression of bliss on her face. He chuckles at the thought that he has rendered her entirely incapable of rational think, but he quickly follows her, pulling her into his arms and running his hand up and down her spine as she recovers. Gradually, the haze clears from her eyes, and his wife is back with him. "Enjoy your stay among the stars, love?"

Emma grins cheekily. "I did, but I wouldn't mind a third visit if you join me this time."


End file.
